


A Nice Day to be on the Canal

by Slantedlight (BySlantedlight)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BySlantedlight/pseuds/Slantedlight





	A Nice Day to be on the Canal

Of all the stupid things his partner had ever suggested, this had to rank as one of the worst. _Lets go to Wales, Ray._ Great. _Up north, Ray, it's beautiful. Mountains and barmaids and views to die for._ Hah. Miserable weather, miserable people and a pile of miserable bloody rocks. _We can go climbing. Be great, you'll see._

Doyle pulled another clip from his pocket, slid it home, and peered around the corner of the crumbling wall. A flash of red, a shot fired somewhere to the right – _Bodie_! There was no answering shot, but neither was there the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, hard as it was to tell amongst the clatter and scrape of loose slate that littered the mountainside.

He edged around the wall, turning full-circle, straining to hear either his partner's soft footfall or the determined tread of the young terrorists. Nothing. Instinct led him away from the dilapidated group of buildings. About as close to a pub as they were going to get, this trip…

_There_! A slim figure came into view, half-hunched behind a shell of ancient machinery, and without doubt Doyle knew that Bodie was on the other side. He stepped softly and quickly backwards, working his way into a better line of fire. That only left the second man, who had to be somewhere above and to the left. 

Gunfire erupted, and Doyle threw himself sideways behind a pile of loose rocks, felt bullets slamming into the ground, and rolled. He scrambled to his feet, not bothering to fire as his targets vanished, and…

Doyle felt a flash of surprise. One minute there was rock beneath his feet, the world as usual even if he was being shot at, and the next that support was gone. For a brief second it was like being in a lift - _ground floor please_ \- then his brain caught up with the moment, and Doyle knew that he wasn't anywhere so safe and civilised, and he was falling.

The world rushed back at him through the soles of his feet, tilted and tipped him, and he came down hard on his back, breath forced out until his lungs ached with it. Then he was sliding headfirst, scree and slate slicing into him. He threw his arms out, trying to dig in, to catch himself - but abruptly there was nothing solid to grasp at and the ground dropped away again. Finally his shoulder struck rock with a resounding crack, and he was planing sideways until at last the world stopped moving against him.

There was a kind of silence, but for the distant chink and clatter of stone against stone below him, and then the only things left were the sparking agony that was his shoulder, and a cloud of dust that he knew he shouldn't cough against… but he did, and the world finally faded out in a rush of pain and darkness.

o0o

It was the sound of stone on stone that woke him next, somewhere above and to the left. He twitched, wanting to reach for his Walther, but it was somewhere far below him on the mountain. He turned his head away from the deep grey of the sky, met instead the deep grey of rock and slate. And eventually, at long last, the toe of a brown brogue, a long corduroy-clad leg, and a tailored – if somewhat less than immaculate – jacket came into view; Bodie descending cautiously in a small avalanche of dust and stone.

Now it would be alright. Great ugly prat.

When next he opened his eyes Bodie's face hovered above him, jaw held taut even when his mouth quirked briefly at the corner. "Oh, there you are. Skiving off are we?"

Doyle waited until his partner had settled beside him, blocking the overly-bright clouds. He drew breath to speak and found himself coughing again. Nausea spread through him and he turned away in case he really was going to be sick.

"Alright… alright, sunshine." A hand stroked his forehead. "What've you done this time? Put your shoulder out?"

"Just a bit…" Doyle managed. "What bloody kept you?"

"Eeny and Meeny."

"Ah." The young Welsh nationalists with the shiny guns and the bizarre connections to Omnipol. "They figure out they're outnumbered yet?"

"Well they were until you took a header down the bank. How the hell you managed that…"

Doyle contemplated the "bank" he'd become so intimate with, including the seven foot drop at the end. "Was gettin' a bit bored. Told you Wales was a lousy idea."

"Well if you hadn't been trying to smarm your way around Cowley," Bodie began, and then seemed to give up. "There are easier ways to get down a mountain, you know."

"Yeah…" he winced, "Must remember that." 

Hands ran the length of him, checking for broken bones he supposed. Every part of him stung as if he were covered in splinters of glass, but the hands felt good. Until they reached his ankle.

His cry surprised even him, the mountains seemed to echo with it, and Bodie slapped a hand across his mouth. Damn. Eeny and Meeny were apparently _not_ out of the game. And he'd broken his foot as well. 

Doyle shook his head free and clenched his teeth against the nausea once more, intending to sit up. He felt instead a heavy weight on his chest, holding him down. "What the 'ell are you doing?"

"Be easier if you're lying down."

He squinted up at Bodie, wondering how the sky could be so dark and yet so bright at the same time, a vague foreboding seeping through his skin. "What will?"

"Me putting your shoulder back."

Oh, for Christ's sake. "You are not."

"Ray, be reasonable…"

_Ray be reasonable?_ "That's what got us into this in the first place, me bloody giving in to you!"

"What got us into this, _mate_ , was you running your mouth off to the Cow!"

"Oh, and this is a nice way of getting a bit of your own back is it?"

"Doyle!" the harsh whisper drew even his pain-filled attention back to reality. "Me getting my own back would be leaving you to _rot_ here with a dislocated shoulder and a broken ankle. Now _will you_ shut the hell up?"

Fuck. He closed his eyes again, feeling but not wanting to see Bodie positioning himself. They'd been taught how to do it, of course, how to turn the arm just so, how to brace themselves if there was no one else around, even how to do it for themselves if they were alone. Had Bodie reduced an arm before? He knew he never had, had hoped from the moment they'd been shown that he never would. Didn't seem right, somehow, to be twisting the inside parts of your body around like that, on purpose. He found it strange that he could even remember what it was called. 

"Ray?"

He opened his eyes again. Bodie had taken hold of his arm, was frowning down at him.

"Trust me."

His heart danced a jitterbug in his throat, anticipating pain, anticipating sharp, excruciating pain, but this was Bodie who could do anything to him, and he let himself sink into Bodie's gaze and then the world went black for the second time that day.

o0o

"Oi." A tapping at his face. "Oi Doyle, wakey-wakey, eh?"

Doyle twitched himself away, scrunching his face at first against the annoying fingers, and then against the mound of bruise that was his body. 

"Gerroff me," he finally managed, raising his arms to protect himself. His left one ached, and his right was smeared with blood, and all of a sudden he remembered. He opened his eyes and sat up, stared down at his foot strapped securely in white. "Wha's going on?"

"Put your arm back. Thought I'd get on with your ankle while I was at it." He looked grim. "Reckon we should probably make a move soon."

"How long was I out?"

"'Bout forty minutes." He gestured at the glowering clouds. "I think it might be time for us to head off, mate. You up to it?"

Not bothering to grace that with a reply, Doyle levered himself around, slung his good arm across Bodie's shoulders, and let himself be pulled to his feet. Foot. He looked down at it in disgust.

"Badly broken then?"

"Nah. Bit of a twist. Pretty bad, but I couldn't feel any bones gone. You'll be running rings around Macklin in no time."

Doyle surveyed the vast tracts of wilderness around them, conveyed doubt with a look. "Presuming we get back to anything approaching civilisation, that is. Back up to the car, is it?"

"Um… no."

"No?"

"Remember I mentioned Eeny and Meeny?"

"They found the car."

"Kept 'em amused while I was patching you up. Plus the explosion should've been big enough to alert the locals, even from up here."

"They blew up the car? My car?" He twisted around to see a spreading plume of black smoke far above them.

"Well, not strictly speaking your car. Strictly speaking, Her Majesty's car. I'm pretty sure she's got more."

" _My car_." Doyle muttered, shaking his head, "Bastards…" 

"Come on." Bodie started them moving further down the slope. "While they're still celebrating their righteous victory over CI5. Not a good idea to get caught out here with only one gun between us."

Doyle groaned, only partly from the pain in his foot. "Cowley's going to kill us."

"Well, if you hadn't asked him to send us up here…"

"I _asked him_ which would be the more relaxing holiday, psychologically speaking, climbing in bloody Wales or a week floating serenely through the canals around Warwickshire!"

"Yeah, and what brilliant idea did that conjure then? Lift your foot sunshine, you might as well keep that dry at least… my best vest that used to be…" Bodie half-swung him through an icily-running stream, before putting on what Doyle knew was his best Scottish accent, "Aye an' I've got a little errand you can run for me while you're up there…" It still sounded part German.

"You took your vest off? Up there with those two running around?"

"It took 'em half an hour to realise we were gone. And then there were the glorious fireworks."

"How the hell did those two get their hands on a dozen pounds of Semtex?" Doyle wondered again, and patted at Bodie's chest to get him to stop. They were finally nearing the bottom of the slope. Somewhere there was a road, and somewhere there were the brightly lit streets of … well, some miserable village probably, but he could dream of a warm bed and hot toddies. Of course all he could see in the dim light was yet another abandoned stone building, this one guarded by a pair of straggly pine trees. 

"You got clearance on your RT yet?"

"Might have except I…"

"…left it in the car…"

"Well I can't be perfect all the time. Be too depressing for everyone else."

"That why you let those bastards get the drop on you up there?"

"That why you fell off a bloody mountain and near cracked your skull open?"

Doyle felt suddenly very tired, the kind of weary tired that should only come when the adrenalin is all used up. His shoulder ached, his foot was playing merry hell, and they still had miles to walk. He didn't have time to be tired like that yet, but for a moment, just a moment, he let himself slump against Bodie, and Bodie's arms tightened around him. Bodie's heart beat beside his own. 

In the distance he could hear helicopters, growing slowly louder and closer, and as they stood a fine rain began to fall. Then Bodie's lips were warm against his forehead, and the air when they left was not quite as cold.

"Next time," Bodie said, giving him one last, rough caress before they hobbled onwards, "Next time we go to Grimsby."

 

_21st March 2006_


End file.
